


Everything, everything

by greglestrudel



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 1980's teen Greg and Myc, Fluff, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Mild Angst, TW: Homophobia, TW: internalised homophobia, it's really just soft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-09
Updated: 2018-02-09
Packaged: 2019-03-15 17:26:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,571
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13618140
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/greglestrudel/pseuds/greglestrudel
Summary: hello friends! this is a piece i've had in the works for a long while now, and i'm super excited to be finally putting it out there. a big thanks to my friendo liz (@vvlcanspock on twitter) for being my beta reader, hypeman, and mycroft. love you lots <3 hope you all enjoy!!





	Everything, everything

**Author's Note:**

> hello friends! this is a piece i've had in the works for a long while now, and i'm super excited to be finally putting it out there. a big thanks to my friendo liz (@vvlcanspock on twitter) for being my beta reader, hypeman, and mycroft. love you lots <3 hope you all enjoy!!

October 1983 

Mycroft knows what's coming before it hits him. Knows who, rather, before he hits him. He knows the words that are to come from his tormentor’s mouth before they're uttered, too. He knows the pain, he prepares himself for the impact. Fatty. 

What he didn’t expect, though, was the deep mahogany curls and golden brown eyes lending their hands to help him up. “You alright?” The gravelly voice takes Mycroft by surprise. Against all will, he finds himself wanting to hear more. 

“I’m fine, thanks,” he hardly squeaks out, though the flow of blood coming from his nose tells otherwise. Not for the first time did he find himself cursing his physical form as his weak attempt at a diversion is met by a low chuckle from the older boy. Mycroft allows himself a proper look at his new companion. He's tall, probably around eighteen though Mycroft could see his spirit was youthful. The chestnut eyes that had met his own were happy, now glittering golden as they caught the sunlight. There is no denying he's handsome, and Mycroft’s ears go red as he allows the thought. He tilts head back to combat the nosebleed, an action with dual purpose to divert his eyes. 

“No,” the elder boy, who had been helping him gather his things, places his fingers on either side of the bridge of Mycroft’s nose. “Don’t tilt, could cause a clot.” He has an accent Mycroft can’t quite pinpoint, and the blunt way he uses the language tells him he wasn’t of a particularly wealthy name, as if the words were his to be manipulated. Mycroft does as he’s instructed, pointing his face back at the ground. 

“You shouldn’t have done that,” he sighs, beginning as he finally gets his bearings. “They’re only going to get worse when they see I’m alone.” It’s the truth, Mycroft knows, because now not only was he the nerd fatty but the nerd fatty with a bodyguard to hide behind. 

“I guess you just ain’t gonna be alone again then.” It’s said with such casualty, as if friendship really was as simple as that. Like kindergarten. Mycroft scoffs into his hand. 

“I don’t exactly have an abundance of friends to rely upon-,“ 

“Greg. Greg Lestrade,” he’s cut off. “There, now you’ve got one. Wasn’t so hard.” Mycroft laughs. 

“I don’t really suppose it’s that simple, Gregory.” 

“No? Why not?” It’s a simple question, but Mycroft finds himself feigning for an answer. It wouldn’t be the last time Greg flusters Mycroft out of words. Greg laughs, “Let me walk y’to class,” and he does, with little opposition from Mycroft, who had accepted his defeat in this round. 

Mycroft does not expect, by any stretch of the imagination, that the brunette would be waiting for him in the corridor when he had finished Business and Personal Law. And he did not expect his newest friend to insist upon escorting him home, either. The ginger digs a fingernail into the pad of his index finger, feeling certain that he must have fallen into some hallucinogenic state. 

“Penny for your thoughts?” Greg offers the first of many cheeky grins, casting a sideways glance to the younger as they make their way side by side. 

Mycroft only laughs a quiet chuckle and shakes his head. He couldn’t for the life of him work out why Greg had even bothered to stop, bothered to talk to him, bothered to be kind. Mycroft knows he isn’t anything special—if anything he was probably the least offering prospect in the entire school. Mycroft knows he isn’t much of a looker; a short, chubby, round faced sixteen year old, though smartly dressed and red hair neatly combed. He imagines Greg hadn’t a hard time making friends. 

“Shouldn’t let them get to you, y’know,” Greg interrupts his stream of thoughts, which he so seemed to enjoy doing. Coherent thoughts were but a pipe dream around him, it appeared. 

“Pardon?” 

“Those arseholes, don’t listen to ‘em,” the brunette replies genuinely. Mycroft studies how those kind eyes somehow grew kinder, sincerity plain in them. 

“They’re not wrong,” he mumbles, hating himself for allowing vulnerability. How had Greg made him feel so comfortable in just a few hours? 

“They are,” Greg combats, making it clear he wasn’t going to accept Mycroft’s self deprecation. “What makes them any better ‘an you?” 

“Have you seen me?” Mycroft laughs dryly. Was it not obvious? 

“Yeah, and I think you’re just alright,” but it’s said with a tone that drips with genuineness. Mycroft likes the way Greg seems to function in brute honesties. He doesn’t speak the whole rest of the walk, allowing himself to just think, and Greg returns the favour. Greg might be rough around the edges and bare bones honest, but he appears to know boundaries and respect them. Mycroft appreciates that. 

 

December 1983 

Mycroft and Greg had fallen into a comfortable rhythm, despite having known each other for a short time. Mycroft would consider Greg his best friend if anyone were to ask, and he hoped that his brunette friend shared the sentiment. Hanukkah had started for Greg, who he learned was Jewish promptly after watching the larger boy black another’s eye for using a slur. The cheeriness that was always glimmering in his eyes was alit even more than always, if that were possible. And Mycroft hadn’t been pushed around once since Greg had waltzed into his companionship, for which Mycroft was endlessly grateful. He had discovered in the few months of their friendship—which felt not like months but rather years, as if each moment stretched into a thousand when they were together, the universe providing extended life for those two alone, for they had in tandem figured happiness like a machine—that despite his prior belief in being alone, good company was always superior to none. 

Thanks to the holidays, they had found each other lying on their backs on the hardwood floor of Mycroft’s bedroom, both facing opposite directions, the tops of their heads just barely touching. Mycroft can smell Greg’s shampoo, his aftershave. He doesn’t allow himself a look, as to avoid his thoughts being clouded, stolen like the stars on an overcast night. He does imagine, though; he imagines the way Greg’s unkempt curls must fall around his face, the way his loosened tie must lay across his chest, the way his chest must rise and fall rhythmically, comfortably, hidden only by is thin collared button up. 

It’s not quiet—Greg had insisted that Mycroft listen to his copy of the complete Billy Joel after Mycroft had made it apparent he hadn’t a clue who the artist was. He had made it seem like it was the most blasphemous thing to ever occur, however Mycroft failed to see what the big deal was. Nonetheless, he was happy to lay in the dark with Gregory, unspeaking, and enjoy the simple silence, which once would have daunted him but now soothes him. 

Joel isn’t quite what Mycroft would have usually listened to, but he isn’t put off by it. The cracks and pops of the record under the player are unfamiliar and unexpectedly calming. Mycroft, not a stranger to wealth, had offered to purchase the album on CD, to which Greg had scoffed and claimed, “The white noise makes it good.” 

Despite his best efforts, Mycroft feels a smile tugging at his lips upon hearing his friend’s low hum. He knew Greg played a string instrument—presumably guitar—by the calluses on his fingertips, and he assumed Greg sang, given his passion for music, though he had never actually heard him sing bar the few times he had borrowed the shower after spending the night. He wonders if someday he’ll know the honour. 

Eventually Greg sits up to flip the record, “This one makes me think of you.” It makes him think of Mycroft. Something about that, about the implication that Greg thought about Mycroft at all, makes a smile split across his face. He opens his mouth to make a smart comment but stops himself, deciding rather to let the moment be catalogued under "Happy Memories with Greg," a folder that was bursting at the seams by now. Mycroft wonders if Greg has a similar repository. 

 

January 1984 

It had started with little things, scrapes and cuts here and there with reasonable stories to match them. Greg had made it clear he didn't want Mycroft worrying about him, and though he warred with himself about it in his head, he had decided to respect Greg's privacy about it. His friend was still largely his usual self. When Mycroft demanded seriousness Greg counteracted with playfulness. The light behind his eyes and in his laugh was still there, so Mycroft supposed he must be all right. Rugby was a rough sport anyway, one that could easily have given him the bruises and minor injuries. 

Not until Greg had missed an entire week of school does Mycroft allow himself to worry. After a day he figures there was work his mother needed him to do or perhaps he was ill. After two days he narrows it down to illness. After three, concern has risen for Gregory's family. After five, Mycroft is a complete nervous wreck. Greg is a very hardworking kid, and Mycroft knows he wouldn't just disappear. He hopes not, anyway. 

Mycroft didn't actually know that much about Greg's home life. The few times it had come up the topic had been brushed aside almost immediately, and though he was curious and a tad concerned, Mycroft didn't want to push Greg. When he pulls up at the address he'd gotten from one of Greg's rugby mates, he realises what a posh prick he must've come off as. The house is less than sturdy looking, and the overgrown weeds that line the property seem to be the only thing holding it together. Immediately he feels a pang of sorrow for his friend. He takes a deep breath as he reaches to knock on the worn-down door, not in the slightest knowing what to expect. 

To his utter relief, a woman with the same kind eyes as his older friend answers. "Hello?" 

"Hello, is Gregory here? I hadn't heard from him in quite a few days, and I-," He stops himself. "I'm Mycroft Holmes." 

The woman nods, a gentle, understanding smile taking claim to her face. She resembled Greg very much, and Mycroft now understood where he got his good looks from. "Sure, dear. He's upstairs, had himself locked up there all day. Ever since he came home, really." She steps aside, letting Mycroft inside and closing the door behind him. He smiles appreciatively, toeing his shoes off on the mat, though it didn't much seem like they cared about their carpets like his mother did. 

"Came home from where?" Mycroft inquires. The woman, who Mycroft assumes is Mrs. Lestrade, gives him a bittersweet smile, something similar to one you might see on one's face as they remember a fond memory of someone just passed. 

"His is just up there, first on the left. You go on right ahead." 

Mycroft knocks softly before pushing the door open slowly, preparing himself for the worst. Or trying to, at any rate. There's not anything he could've done to prepare himself for what he's met with. The bed is in the corner of the dingy room, laundry strewn across the floor. It's lit by only a standing lamp in the opposite corner and the sunlight through the bent blinds. Greg is there, laid out across the bed, one foot propped up at the end. Mycroft's chest aches with guilt. He approaches slowly, waiting for Greg to object. It feels as though time has stopped, and as though someone has muted all sounds. Everything is still, and for a long sombre moment Mycroft is sure his heartbeat could be heard all the way out the door and down the street. He surveys his friend, feeling the tightness in his chest worsen the longer he does. After what feels like hours he's made it to the edge of the bed, and without thinking he takes Greg's hand gently into his own, smoothing his thumb over the brunette's knuckles. They're bruised too. 

"Wh-," Mycroft has to clear his throat before he can continue, the tightness in his chest reaching up and strangling him too. "Gregory," the words come quiet, just barely a whisper, as if Greg would fall apart if Mycroft spoke too loudly, "What happened?" 

Greg's face is bruised heavily, his left eye swollen almost entirely shut. There's a cut that follows the corner of his eye to just below his cheekbone, held closed by two small bandages. A similar one covers the bridge of his nose. His right arm is in a sling, which Mycroft recognises is for his shoulder. For the first time ever, Mycroft sees sadness in those honey brown eyes. It feels like everything wrong in the world, like if this boy's eyes can hold sorrow then there could be no worse occurrence. 

Greg shakes his head minutely, a pained grin on his face. "You should see the other guy," he attempts to joke, but as soon as the words pass his lips Mycroft sees the sting of them on his face. 

"Gregory..." Mycroft frets. "Gregory, I care about you." He doesn't know why he says it, but he does. 

And as if Greg reads his mind, he speaks coarsely, "Why are you tellin' me this?" Mycroft sighs softly. 

"Because I thought you should know." 

"Because you thought I should know?" 

"Because I wanted you to know." Mycroft finally replies, and he means it. He wants to tell Greg how he cares about him, how he thinks about the way his nose hooks, how he wants so badly to kiss him. But he doesn't, and instead he hopes his small revelation tells more than its face value. 

Greg is quiet again. The silence both calms and kills Mycroft. He thinks perhaps his silence means he wants to know too, or perhaps it means Mycroft had said too much. Implied too much. He redirects his eyes to Greg's hand, which once seemed strong and sturdy but now seemed anything but. The bruises that decorate his fragile knuckles are a twisted green, and Mycroft knows they're not new. Not like the ones on his face, the ones covering his eyes and dampening the light behind them. He wants to ask again what happened, to figure out who had done this to him, to do something to make this right. He knows better, though, and he knows Greg would much rather handle it on his own terms, speak about it on his own terms. The silence that's settled over them is deafening, thick, like the suffocating air of a humid July afternoon on holiday. 

When Mycroft looks back up at his best friend's face, he's shocked to find tears lining his eyes and streaking his face. The shock doesn’t lie within the tears as much as it does upon the trust Greg places upon him to be this vulnerable with him present, upon further consideration, Mycroft discovers. He'd never expected to be anyone's friend, what with his younger brother growing to resent him and the entire school knowing what an unfeeling arse he is, let alone be anyone's best friend, and not to mention be anyone's confidant. In a moment of haste and benevolence, he pulls out his handkerchief and wipes gently at Greg's eyes, being sure to be extra tender when touching his injured side. He gives Greg a compassionate smile, leaving his hand cupping his companion's cheek and brushing his thumb over his cheekbone. 

"I wish you would have told me. You could have called." He finally breaks the silence. 

"The phone was out." Mycroft instantly regrets his statement, feeling yet again like the arrogant posh arsehole. 

"Sorry," Is all he can think to say. He wishes there was something he could do to make things better, to take all the hurt away. 

Despite all of Greg's injuries, he still manages to take every conscious thought of Mycroft's. He can't help but notice that Greg's lips–God, those lips–are still the same temptation as always. And Mycroft has already pushed boundaries he would have never thought of crossing, and Greg had offered no opposition. So, turning his brain off, Mycroft leans forward to place a chaste kiss to Greg's forehead between his eyebrows. Keeping his face close to Greg's he studies him for a reaction, an involuntary sign of disapproval or dismay. When there is none, Mycroft indulges in the moment, pressing a deep kiss to Greg's lips. It's heaven, like he's flying, like this is everything he's ever wanted. He's pleased when he feels Greg reciprocating, even deepening the kiss. Mycroft thinks perhaps he's been too busy proclaiming how much he doesn’t need physical affection to realise how much he wants it. 

And then the moment of bliss is broken as Greg pulls away, shaking his head. "I shouldn't. I'm sorry, I- I know myself." The tone of his voice is ashamed, and it makes Mycroft's skin crawl. He's not sure which of it makes him most angry, the fact that someone had made him feel so guilty about his desires or that he seemed to think Mycroft didn't know what he was asking for. He knew himself? What does that even mean? Did he think he was too much for Mycroft to handle? Was there someone who had told him he was too much to handle? The thought of it made Mycroft want to scream, but instead he nods. Respecting boundaries has been the very basis of their friendship, anyway, and Mycroft isn't about to throw that away. 

"I can go-," He starts, but is quickly stopped by Greg's hand on his arm and a shake of his head. 

"Please don't." Mycroft doesn’t need to be asked twice, settling beside him in the small twin bed. Mycroft is unused to sharing a bed, and unused to a small bed, but sharing with Greg isn't uncomfortable. Being extra careful as to not hurt him, Mycroft scoots in so they're touching–knees, hips, elbows, shoulders–before covering them both with the comforter. It's pitch black out now, but Mycroft doesn't want to know what time it is. He doesn’t care, really, he would stay right here with Greg until the end of the world if it came to that. The lamp in the corner isn't actually providing as much light as Mycroft had thought it was, and he doesn't bother to get up and turn it off. Instead, he examines the ceiling above them, not daring to look at the broken boy beside him. And when Greg's breathing eventually slows, Mycroft doesn't leave. 

 

February 1984 

"Gregory?" Mycroft has been stealing sideways glances at the boy every so often, kicking a rock as they walk along side-by-side. 

"Huh? What's up, Myc?" Greg casts his eyes toward Mycroft, and once more the shining happiness that was the staple of his elder friend had returned to them, much to Mycroft's relief and contentment. It'd been nearly a full month since Greg had been so harshly hurt, and Mycroft had been playing his best nurse to help him in his recovery. That also meant it'd been nearly a full month since Mycroft had kissed Greg. 

"Why does that song make you think of me?" 

"What?" 

"That day, over holiday, when you had me listen to your music. You said the song makes you think of me, why?" Mycroft had been wondering the very question since the fact had been stated, but he'd never quite found the right time to ask. 

"Wha- Myc, I forgot about that," Greg laughs, shaking his head. "I dunno, you're so focused. Work so hard. Never... I guess I just think sometimes y'forget to take a breath, have some time for yourself, y'know?" Mycroft nods, less agreeing and more so in understanding. He was a hard worker, yes, and ambitious, but he's not sure he would consider himself to be working too hard. His father might even say he's not working hard enough. 

"Do you think of me often?" The question escapes before he can think otherwise, much to his own chagrin. 

"And if I do?" The brunette flashes a cheeky grin, and Mycroft feels his stomach swoop. 

"Then you think of me often," Mycroft shrugs, doing his best faux innocence before a sly grin finds itself on his face. 

Greg doesn’t give him a definite answer, but he says, “Everything, everything,” though with Greg’s accent the ‘g’s are cut off and Mycroft thinks it sounds a lot better when Greg says it than when he mulls it over in his head. Mycroft wonders what “everything, everything,” means. Maybe it means Mycroft is everything, or everything is Mycroft, or maybe Mycroft wants it to mean that. Maybe it means, “I think of you so often I see you in everything, Mycroft.” He tries to imagine Greg saying that, implying that. It makes his heart speed up in his chest and he can feel the tips of his ears going red. Mycroft wants to ask, but he doesn’t. He tucks the thought away to be savoured with the rest, like a chipmunk preparing for a desolate winter. He imagines if he were a chipmunk, Greg must be a wolf. Perhaps a fox, the way he seemed to slink around and avoid everyone’s attention, simultaneously holding it with iron grasp. The way he's always unafraid, how he never seems to say exactly anything but still says more than words ever could. Sly, that way, he is. 

Mycroft assesses Greg’s look through stolen glances, still studying his shoes intensely. The month had given his bruises time to fade, but his arm still remained in the sling. It was funny seeing Greg injured. He’d been indestructible, until now, when he sometimes proposed obscenities to inanimate objects which found themselves in his way. His eyes still glimmer with everything youthful. It makes Mycroft think maybe there's a way to be good again. 

 

September 1986 

Mycroft, now newly eighteen, finds himself bouncing a pen off its clicker. He'd been emptying his admittedly few things into the cramped dorm. Lucky, he'd been told he was, in landing a single room. He can't help but think that it makes him all the more isolated. Still, it's nice to have his own space. Though scarcely decorated, Mycroft thinks it's comfortable. 

It'd been a full year then since his elder and only friend had left him at home for University with nothing but a promise of frequent visits. Those visits had hardly ever come, both of them having very busy, conflicting schedules. And besides, Mycroft was sure Greg had made friends at school he'd much rather spend time with. How could he not? Mycroft had been lonely, yes. And tormentors had found themselves back in his life, yes. But Mycroft wouldn't dare burden Greg with that stuff, kid's stuff. No, Greg was an adult now, and certainly he didn’t have time for kids, old friends. At least that's how Mycroft rationed it to himself. He doesn't have a problem being alone, anyway. It's not anything he can’t handle. 

Nothing he can't handle, until he finds the email from his brown-haired friend and begins to realise how much his heart ached thinking about it. Not until diglestrade@london.ac.uk makes its way into his inbox does he recognise his longing for companionship. Mycroft is forever grateful that a phone number had been attached as well, along with a time. Sunday, 17.00. Xx G, the message had read. 

So here Mycroft is, against the wall in the emptied library. Hardly anyone is in their dorms, most were still enjoying the last few moments of summer. Mycroft hadn't much to do in the summer to begin with, and was far too excited to be on his own to stay at home longer than he needed. He's in his favourite button up and trousers, as if Greg might catch a glimpse of him through the call and decide to come, to visit, I'll be there in two hours, stay put. If nothing else, Mycroft reasons, it's for his own confidence. He punches in the ten digits, holding his breath as he waits. 

"Hello?" The familiar voice picks up after six rings. 

"Gregory?" Mycroft asks softly, feeling emotional already. Why? 

"Hey, you!" Greg replies excitedly, and Mycroft imagines the light in his eyes. He wonders if Greg can hear his smile through the phone. 

"Hello, Gregory," Mycroft can't keep himself from smiling profusely. He wonders how Greg could render him so thoughtless, even after all this time. 

"Hey, Myc." The line is quiet for a few moments, and Mycroft imagines Greg is smiling the way he is. "How are you?" Mycroft feels every emotion he’s had in the past year flushing over him in waves. He bites his tongue. 

“I’m good,” he finally replies, after a long moment of quiet. It’s not a lie; he was good. He had lows, hopeless moments, those in which happiness seems farthest from reality. Still, after all this time, he feels more okay than anything. Mycroft thinks he might be able to hear Greg’s smile through the wall mounted phone. Maybe he just feels it. 

“Good.” And the line is silent again, for just long enough for Mycroft to worry it’s been cut. But he thinks he can hear Greg’s breathing, the way he had that fateful night that seems now so long ago. 

“Good,” he breathes a small laugh. Mycroft still isn’t sure why Greg had wanted him to call, why he’d wanted to speak to him after so long. "What’s up?" Mycroft asks, feeling Greg’s words in his mouth. 

“Actually, I wanted to ask you something,” his friend replies quiet, genuineness clear in his tone. There's another pause, and Mycroft wonders if he's doing that on purpose. Perhaps silence told him more than words would. "I was wondering if... Would you wanna come and stay for a bit? Here, I mean. Before classes start." It doesn't sound like that was the question Greg had intended to ask with this phone call. It sounds like Greg had rehearsed something else, and chickened out at the last moment. That's not like Greg. Mycroft imagines him hesitating as he's writing the email, as he's picking up the receiver, as he's pondering letting it ring out. He wonders what could be important enough to make calm and cool Greg Lestrade hesitate. He knows what he wants it to be, but he also knows he's learned it's ignorant to be hopeful. 

"Sounds great," Mycroft replies firmly, as if convincing both himself and Greg. 

"Great, I'll see you in-," 

"There's a train at 2:30. I'll see you tonight." Mycroft cuts him off. Greg doesn't ask how Mycroft knows the train schedules. 

"Perfect." 

"Goodbye, Gregory," And for the first time ever he doesn't wait for the line to go flat before hanging up the phone. He thinks only one thought as he makes his way back to his room; Am I still Everything, everything? 

By the time he reaches Greg's apartment, he's nearly tired himself out. His spiraling thoughts have made their rounds enough times that he doesn’t even know what they are anymore, each argument and counterargument blurring together into one loud, obnoxious nothingness. He wonders what Greg's been doing, if he's been thinking like Mycroft has, if he's been driving his neighbors crazy bouncing a tennis ball against their shared wall. Mycroft hesitates before knocking on the door. He doesn’t know what lies in store for him beyond this moment, and part of him knows his future self will long to come back to this moment, where he's neither with nor without Greg, and therefore he's both all in the same. 

When Greg opens the door, he feels every moment prior and subsequent could be divided into these categories, as if this moment will be the defining factor in his life. He wonders if Subsequent Mycroft will be envious of Prior Mycroft, who is eternally unknowing and longing. 

"Hey," Greg says, and his tone is light, airy. Like he's dancing around something. 

"Hello, Gregory." Mycroft addresses him how he always has, how he claimed only his mother and himself did. Greg ushers him in, and he complies. Things are simple for these few quiet moments. 

"So..." Greg starts, sounding like he's trying to distract both himself and Mycroft. He offers to put the football game on telly, they could watch together he says, just like they used to. Mycroft declines, wondering why Greg had wanted to speak to him so badly but now seemed to do anything but. 

"Gregory, I'm going to ask you something," Mycroft tells him slowly. The room had fallen silent for what to Mycroft felt like hours but could have been minutes or even seconds. The air was thick and sticky, but not comforting like July afternoons. "You can choose not to answer, but I need to ask. For me, at least." Greg only nods. Mycroft nods too, as if to say, Right, so I'm actually doing this. "Gregory, what did you mean when you said I know myself? That day when I-," He clears his throat, presses on. "Kissed you, you said it. You looked scared. What did you mean?" Greg's façade falters, and again Mycroft sees the same fear he had so long ago. He saw a child, facing their greatest enemy, battling their worst nightmare. 

"Myc... I guess, the truth is, I meant, what I should've said," Greg shakes his head, railing his thoughts. "I said I know myself when in truth I didn't. I didn't know who I was, what I was, what I wanted. So I pushed everything away, I didn't want to mess up. Because I’d messed up enough already, hadn't I?" Greg's words confuse Mycroft. What did he mean he'd already messed up? Mycroft didn't think his friend could have done any wrongs if he tried. 

"I don’t think I understand," Mycroft tells him, and it's the truth. Greg's eyes wander over Mycroft. He'd come quite a way in the years of their friendship. Mycroft was no longer the short, portly boy he'd once been. Now he was tall, thin, lanky, with a face that was carved of confidence. Greg looks like he's searching for some way to preserve Mycroft, his innocence, but Mycroft isn't the naive kid he had once been either. 

"Myc, all that time ago, I was afraid. I was afraid because my father had left my mother, because we didn't have the money for phone bills much less my schooling. Because I was meant to be the man of the house, but there I was pining over a friend. A lad, at that." The way Greg speaks of himself in the past makes Mycroft feel like he knew nothing, knows nothing, like he missed so much. His heart hurts for Greg and the oh so familiar internalized homophobia. "Because when my dad found out he wouldn't have it. Broke his bottle over the railing and cut me up- Well, you saw." Mycroft feels as if Greg's words had created a vacuum that sucked all the air out of the room. His father had been the one who'd rendered him bedridden. It was his own father which had placed the unmistakable fear and sorrow into those endlessly happy eyes. It made Mycroft furious; how could a father do such horrible things to their own child? 

"He did that? He- He-," Mycroft stammers, heat rising in him. "Why did you continue to go? Why did you see him?" He tries to mask the fury in his tone. 

"He's my dad Mycroft." Greg's voice quivers. "And I guess, I just thought- Thought maybe he'd change. Maybe he'd see it my way for once or, I dunno." He sighs, sounding entirely defeated. "But that's then, and this is now. And we're here now, and...And I know myself now." He laughs quietly, his face pointed at his own lap. "Or I guess, I don't know myself." Mycroft's laugh joins his, the two of them breaking the stale silence. 

"Why are you telling me this?" Mycroft echoes Greg's words, the ones he'd said that night, the same night he'd begged him to please stay. 

"Because I thought you should know." Greg remembers. A smile plays at Mycroft's lips. 

"Because you thought I should know?" 

"Because I wanted you to know." There's a beat of silence as they finish their monologue. 

"Know what?" Mycroft questions. He doesn't even know if Greg has an answer. 

"That I know what I want now,' The brunette replies instantaneously, and Mycroft thinks maybe he'd planned this more masterfully than Mycroft knew. 

"What's that?" He asks, but he doesn’t have to wait for an answer. Greg's face isn't far from his own, and his hand has found the edge of Mycroft's jaw. His eyebrows raise in silent question, and Mycroft nods. That's all it takes, a simple nod, and Greg closes the distance between them, pressing a firm kiss to Mycroft's lips. Greg kisses with confidence, like he doesn't know himself. 

When Greg pulls away, Mycroft has only one question on his tongue. "What are we?" 

"Everything, everything."


End file.
